You Do Belong
by FlorMorada
Summary: "Although she'd shouted and fought and screamed that there was nothing wrong…perhaps she was trying to fool herself. Not admit to herself that something.. .w a s wrong. Not admit to herself that she, her thoughts, her actions, her mind... w e r e wrong." Short-ish story-ish; *PART TWO OF TWO IS UP.*
1. Part One of Two

**You Do Belong.**

FlorMorada

**I do NOT own Victorious.**

**...**

**Part One of Two.**

…

Caterina Valentine sighed as she leant her head against the wall, attempting to fight the urge to inhale all the oxygen in this _ridiculously_ tiny room and just scream - something she hadn't really done since the first few months of her fifteen year old life, like any other baby. Her attempt was a success, however; the girl knew that if she _did_ scream, an adult would come running in and she'd be in **trouble**.

If Cat had a knife, she'd have slit her wrists right about now. Ended her life before the constant _misery_ in it had a chance to consume her into a death-like state anyway...like this room was consuming her personal space. Dying would be better; Cat was always sure of that. Although she was completely clueless as to where she'd end up, if or _when_ she'd killed herself, she was positive she'd be happier _there_ than living as a...a half-alive existence _**here**_.

(The reason as to _why_ Cat felt this way, a question seemingly always in thought, even Cat herself was unsure of. A 'dark' feeling, before depression, had just taken over her from the age of eight, before her actual depression a few years later, and ever since.)

Although presently 'bladeless', the red haired girl _had_ been lucky enough to find her way into the kitchen some nights and drag a knife across her forearm a few times - never sure of having enough time to go deep enough to _**end**_ her life, however. And even if Cat somehow managed to take a knife into her bedroom to do it _there_, she'd be instantly found out anyway. Not just by the dozens of security cameras hidden around the place, but the people _**here**_ were _trained_ to be on the lookout for _'that'_ type of activity... The possibility of an adult finding her and stopping the bleeding, Cat supposed, keeping her alive, which would result in them then probably tying her wrists _together_ to stop a suicide attempt again…would be more unbearable than dying itself.

Although, there'd always be _other_ ways.

Cat could always…lock herself in the gym one evening and hang herself with one of the climbing ropes. For a small girl, Cat had quite strong arms; she could easily get to the rope which would do her best…_'worst'_. Or, Cat thought, she could do something more thrilling, like sneak outside at the dead of night for...for '_**air**_', and, stepping onto the road, get 'accidently' hit-and-instantly-killed-with-no-chance-of-surviva l-whatsoever' by a car...'_accidently_'. Or, Cat laughed dryly, she could even just go with the common overdose. She was sure the _dozens_ of pills she'd been demanded to take were close to exceeding some sort of limit...saving her meds for a couple of months then swallowing them all at once would be more than easy enough.

The girl let out a humourless chuckle. There were many ways Cat could (at least attempt to) end her life, _many_. And, if she really tried, no one could really stop her. Just a knife, or a rope, or a few handfuls of pills, and she'd be done.

_**Dead.**_

...The small girl suddenly felt a wave of uneasiness take over her. The realisation of knowing she'd just been musing on how to _kill_ herself sent a cold feeling to the pit of her stomach.

She'd done this before; lost herself in a daze of knives and pills and death, but knowing she could do it so _casually_ still made her feel uncomfortable.

Cat angrily bit down on her lip.

It was because she did stuff like this, because she had _thoughts_ like this, that, as much as she hated admitting it, proved that maybe people were right…maybe she _**did**_ belong here.

A tired sigh escaped her lips. The girl had only been in this place for a week and a half yet _already_ she was questioning her sanity - just as the people here wanted you to do.

Quickly wiping a hand across her watery eyes (oh..._allergies_...), Cat pushed stood up from her bed. She walked over to her tiny excuse of a dressing table, sitting down on the stool, before picking up her brush, beginning to comb through her hair. There wasn't anything better to do. Cat had a free period and her next lesson started in an hour, so she was sure there was not a thing more time-filling to do than doing nothing, like absent mindedly brushing her hair.

Or, perhaps this place had just drilled into her brain how important it was to _do_ nothing too much; be 'normal', act 'normal', neither of which she thought she had the ability to do.

Cat leant to the side slightly, her white shirt sleeve sliding down her arm as she did so, and her gaze was immediately drawn to the small expanse of _once_ flawless, _once_ perfect, white skin...or the little that was left of it.

The girl's wrist was now scarred with stripes of discoloured white, pale stripes of pink, some even deep maroon - the last time she'd cut was just...a few days ago. Or yesterday, last night. (Who cared about when last? Cat sure didn't.) She stared at her arm, analysing the dozens of scars - to Cat, an unwritten diary.

Cutting was an art to her. A sick art, but an art, nevertheless; a way to almost vocalise her emotions. Her wrists, her thighs, her stomach; all places Cat could _**slice**_ her feelings into, _**carve**_ her emotions, unbeknown to her friends, family, the _world_. Her cutting was not only a release, Cat mused, but she could express herself, and she always cherished the feeling. That _**freedom**_ as the blade would pierce her skin, as she dragged the knife across in lines, drawing rivers of scarlet on a bed of white. She simply loved creating the 'masterpieces' - those lines, those crosses, the words. Simply the _sight_ of her blood was enough to slow her racing mind sometimes, but overall, just how she felt when she _cut_.

It was sick; Cat knew. But she _**loved**_ it.

Placing her hairbrush onto the wooden table again, the girl scrutinised the imperfections even more (it was only the cutting she 'loved'...the marks from it were _far_ from perfect). Cat pushed her sleeve up higher. _More_ scars, _more_ cuts, _more_ proof of her eternal **hurt**...she grazed her fingertips over them. A small sound escaped from her, first heard, probably much like a laugh, but Cat knew herself - it was a cry. Staring at each line, each cross, each 'masterpiece', 'unwritten diary' 'entry'...Cat suddenly thought her scars were almost repulsive. They..they _disgusted_ her.

_**She**_disgusted her_self_.

'**Cutter**'. Even the _word_ sounded vile, a word Cat supposed best described herself. There was no real wonder as to why the Hollywood Arts population categorised the girl as demented - the demeanour of a self mutilating psycho was more revealing than a cut could ever be. She'd looked crazy because she _was_ crazy - there needn't be a scar or such to prove it.

Yes, she loved _cutting_...but there wasn't way in which she loved what it'd _caused_ her - moving her from Hollywood Arts and landing her a place _**here**_.

Cat changing school, on the one hand, was good...but it didn't mean that the world outside this place would change. Cat would always 'be crazy', at Hollywood Arts, or here - anywhere in the world. Plus, when she _would_ one day step foot out of here, she'd still really be the _same_...no, she wouldn't have changed either. Still, her wrists would have to be adorned with dozens of her 'pretty bracelets'. Still, she'd have to 'hate water' - her reason for her constant swimming inability (it wasn't as if she was terrified of revealing her scars or anything). Still, a smile would _have _to be stretched across her face, to hide her hurt. Her **pain**.

Just as they had all done for the past two years.

Plus...cutting in itself? Another reminder that Cat maybe _did_ belong here... Despite months of angry tears, insisting not only to her family but to her _friends_ that she was '_fine!_', that she didn't belong in '_places like __**this**_'…perhaps it wasn't so.

Although she'd shouted and fought and _screamed_ that there was nothing wrong…perhaps she was trying to fool herself.

Not admit to herself that something..._was_ wrong.

Not admit to herself that she, her thoughts, her actions, her _mind_..._were_ wrong.

She needed mental help and could not deny it.

**...**

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:**

Part two will be up tomorrow or Friday, whether I have 10 reviews or 5 reviews or none. :)

…Too much to ask for, maybe, 3 though?

…

**FlorMorada.**


	2. Part Two of Two

**You Do Belong.**

FlorMorada

**I do NOT own Victorious.**

…

**Part Two of Two.**

…

Suddenly hearing the familiar knock of one of the staff, Cat stood up from her stool, pulling down her sleeve. A tall, dark haired woman stood in the hallway, glaring at Cat as she opened her door.

"Valentine," she said coldy. "Your appointment?"

Cat blinked. The woman still stared at her, obviously annoyed. God, Cat had known the lady less than a fortnight, but already, she despised her... _'Sarah'_ (the place encouraged first name reference), would, ironically, refer to Cat as 'Valentine', as if this place was a prison (although, Cat mused, it kind of _was_). Nevertheless, she didn't like it. She didn't like _her, _period.

Clearing her throat, Sarah told Cat the time. "11:43. You're thirteen minutes late for your appointment, Valentine."

Cat raised an eyebrow, confused. Last time she'd checked, it was only ten thirty. She had gone to the cafeteria for breakfast then returned to her room a few minutes later... Evidently, being alone with her thoughts was a convenient way to pass time.

Cat sighed, explaining she'd be out in a moment, and quickly ran back into her room. She went to her bedside and slowly lifted the edge of her pillow, pulling out her fifteen silver bracelets; seven for one arm, eight for the other. Not many - some were still at home - but enough to hide the inches of stripes of red.

Force of habit really, wearing her bracelets. Everyday since eighth grade, Cat had adorned her wrist with them; they were never questioned, only thought evident so as to look 'pretty'. But although her friends were not _**here**_, to either 'not question' or think 'pretty', Cat still found herself wearing them.

Perhaps because, subconsciously, Cat knew the bracelets made it harder to dwell on past scars...dwelling did more bad than good. Perhaps Cat thought that hiding her scars would help reiterate how just bad cutting was, how she she should stop.

Or perhaps, Cat laughed, they just _did_ 'look pretty'...she sure had been complimented on them enough times.

'_Appointments_', Cat remembered, as she slid the bracelets over her wrists, would happen twice a week - fortnightly, eventually, as things progressed. The girl did not care about the meeting schedule, however; she could meet with that psychotherapist once a **decade** for all she cared - she'd _still_ feel that same...dread. Cat _knew_ what she'd have to talk about - her (reason for being here) past, the crap she was going through in the present, and what she wanted when she got out of here; inevitable shit in the future..._none_ of which she was looking forward to.

Just another of being _**here**_'s perks.

"Valentine, full uniform please."

...Sarah was still here? Hadn't Cat said she'd be out in a moment? The girl politely told the woman to get lost. Cat then looked down at her body; she was wearing only her skirt, shirt and tie - one item of uniform was absent. If there was a thing about Hollywood Arts Cat _did_ miss, it wouldn't be the classes or the people or anything, it was having the freedom of non-uniform. This red and black she had to wear made her feel like a _ladybug_ - if she'd had to choose, they'd be her worst animal.

Like Cat, they were always thought only as 'sweet', but a person would _never_ know what went on inside its head. Like Cat, they could be going through _hell_ and no one would ever think so because, on the outside, they seemed only _'sweet_'. They were wrongly looked upon because of their brightness, but didn't people know? Even ladybugs' wings had spots of black, just as Cat had periods, of total and utter **darkness**.

...Oh, Cat hated ladybugs.

Cat let out a chuckle. Maybe this was _another_ reason why as to why she belonged here.

Having random explanations about hatred towards garden insects was just plain...weird.

Cat walked to the other side of the room for her jumper, pulling it over her head, before sliding on her small, black Vans.

She turned to face her full length mirror, and stared at her reflection. She'd almost forgotten it was there.

...No, not the _mirror_ being there...Cat had almost forgotten she had a reflection.

Seeing her living body was almost a shock for Cat - she hardly ever _felt _alive.

Taking in her uniform - the _physical_ aspect of her **belonging** here, and her face; although washed, slightly tired and unhappy looking (Cat could even swear there were still streaks of mascara under her eyes) - the _emotional_ proof of her **belonging** here, and her scars; bright red lines _still_ slightly visible between the gaps of each bracelet - the _mental_ proof of her **belonging** here...

Cat knew it.

You needn't be an allergist to realise that the tears rolling down her cheeks weren't from '_allergies_'.

Her chest was suddenly filled with a ton of...sorrowful realisation.

Cat stared at her jumper. On none three of the seven days she'd been here had she ever acknowledged anything on it, other than the loose thread on the sleeve, which she'd never remembered to cut off. However, her gaze was now drawn to the top left corner, to a small image with smaller letters...Cat realised it was the logo.

_This place_'s logo.

She traced her finger over the image; from the tip of its roof to the base of its ground, and over the six small, red letters...that logo, _label_, _**marked**_ upon her. It was so true, so representative of her, those letters, that she may as well have cut them into her skin...an addition to just 'UGLY', 'FAT'...'WORTHLESS'.

**'SASMUG'**, the small, red letters read.

_'St. Archer's School for the Mentally Unstable: Girls.'_

Cat's mind was thrown to her issues: how she cut and how she was depressed and how she'd contemplated suicide...more than several times. How, unlike normal thirteen year olds, she hadn't tried to grow up too fast and get boyfriends and go partying, she'd locked herself in her room for all hours, emerging only for school. How, unlike normal fourteen year olds, she hadn't started high school in search of popularity and 'queen-bee' cliques, instead, made herself an intentional outcast - the friends she _had _ended up with were purely by chance. And how, unlike normal fifteen year olds, Cat wasn't facing driving tests, or big school dances, or unexpected pregnancies...

Cat was facing a mirror, on a blank wall, about to sort out what the hell was wrong with herself.

In an school, which was also a mental hospital.

And then, despite herself, she laughed.

_'...God, do I belong here.'_

…

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:**

I wrote this on holiday in _August_, lost it somehow, and now it's been found again. :) I don't mind about reviews, to be honest - if you're reading this, thanks for carrying on until the end.

I hope you liked. Or can even relate to some of the feelings in here too.

…

**FlorMorada.**


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